


The Losing Side

by Bornfrom_Knowledge



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Case, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bornfrom_Knowledge/pseuds/Bornfrom_Knowledge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has plenty to say, especially when no one listens; Or at least that's what he believes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Losing Side

His fingers slid along the white sheets reaching the well known heat of a human body, fingertips creeping up over soft bare skin in the middle of the night where the darkness was the only witness. Skin against skin, he draw tiny soft circles in John’s back.  His iced blue eyes, even in the dark, were fixed on John’s body that it moved at the rhythm of each breath under his ghostly hand.

Sherlock estimated by the thinness of the room and the mere moonlight filtering through the curtains, that were three or four in the morning, his eyes were slightly opened fixed on the body at the other side of the bed, bringing flashes of young memories that explained how is that he got there.

The smell of the events early that night climbed the corner of his mouth to his nose, bringing clarity to the situation.

He smelled the gunpowder and John chasing a suspect.

The taste of blood and iron and his mind becoming a tornado, losing control of his actions.

He remembered the sensation of rain and dampness and then he was screaming to John at the stairs.

The sweat and a lingering smell of hospital antiseptic and suddenly he pushed John against the wall, his mouth breathing over John’s neck hollow, both of them touching each other desperately.

Coffee and sex; and the turbulent way to his room, snogging against every wall, every surface, passing through the kitchen, falling on the bed, ripping the layers of clothes that were interposing between them.

“I’m sorry “Sherlock’s voice brushed his dry throat making it way out of his mouth and vanishing in the room, he didn’t have an answer. “Sometimes I can’t…” His fingertips were ghosting over John’s skin. “I can’t bare the idea of losing you.”

Sherlock moved closer to John, the cold of the space that it was between them made his skin crawl, his body found it place against John’s,  brushing his nose in his sand-colored hair, a hair that screamed Afghanistan , desert and war.

“I knew that you were going to be the death of me…” Sherlock knew that John wasn’t listening, but then again, it was better that way, he wouldn’t be able to say those things with John gazing into his eyes. “When you don’t listen to me, is just… strenuous.  Do you feel that way when I don’t listen to you..? Now I know why you get so upset with me.”

Maybe it was wrong to say all that when he knew that John wasn’t listening, maybe it was even worse to be touching the soldier when he was out of action. But Sherlock wasn’t touching at all; he was feeling, sensing that invisible layer connecting his skin with John’s.

“I wonder… I wonder what you would say to my words.” Sherlock smirked before brushing his lips in John’s nape “You would clench your jaw and swallow words that you would die to say, and then you would look at me, the way that only you know how to, you would look right through me and that… that scares me, I’m afraid that you won’t like what you can find.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, his throat was suddenly dry again, he reminded himself again and again that John was asleep, and that his words were just whispers that would be lost in space and then in time.

His skin prickled again when he felt John move seeking the warmth of his body letting out a long sigh. Sherlock’s heart began to pound, would John heard what was said? It did not matter, John had gone back to sleep.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, with an arm around John’s waist and rested his face on the same pillow that John was using, with his eyes fixed on the figure that the moonbeam had formed. The thoughts inside his head began to become noisy, annoying, and he knew that he had a lot to say, this was his opportunity to say what he could not say face to face.

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, again and again, reconsidering the situation and then looking for the right words, he had to start.

“I’ve been alone, my whole life, I never expected this, nothing that would involve this room and your body, no one’s body.”

Words were piled and crashed into Sherlock’s mind, all of them willing to make that trip from Sherlock’s brain to his mouth, all of them craving to leave it message in the air that was filling the room.

“How is that you came into my life so easily? It does not make any sense; the probabilities were as low as the chances of that a night like this would’ve came true. However, I always felt that I was expecting someone like you, that I was, indeed, expecting… you.”

Every second and every word made it harder to think of the next sentence. But his hands and mouth were beyond that fact.

Sherlock kept his mouth close to John’s nape, whispering, saying, confessing, letting those sentiments flow across the air stream; his words crashing against John’s skin, his hand followed the shape of the wound on the doctor’s shoulder. The corner of his mouth curled in a silent smile.

_A single bullet._

That’s what it took for this to happen.

Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about it, was it wrong being so pleased and grateful that a lost, no so lost, bullet has lodged in the anatomy of a war hero? Was it wrong to feel his heart beating of relief that this poor man was forced to find a flat mate? Was it wrong to be happy because the relationship with his sibling was so regrettable that he preferred to move with a stranger than with his own blood? Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the kind of person whom asked themselves such things; Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a person who cared.

He always knew that it wasn’t wise, to care, such tedious a tribal thing, easily a weakness point, always blurring people’s judgment, the principal ingredient of bad decisions, always hurting  and making damage, _care_ , sentiment. It wasn’t an advantage, he had that very clear.

“What have you done with me? But the right question it would be; how have you done this with me? You’ve reduced me to concerns, fears and questions; you’ve made my emotions grow. No, you’ve created new ones… and I can’t… I don’t want them.”

He looked to John and he felt guilty, he felt loath for himself, it wasn’t fair, he said too much, he did too much and he certainly, touched too much. Too much to stop, he knew that he was not going to be able to stop now, because the sentiment was already inside of him a growing in a monstrous way, scratching his bowels and blending within his own blood, rushing in his veins, the words “John Watson” were inked on his skin. It was too late.

“I don’t mean it though.  I… I just can’t handle them, I don’t know how and I… God…”

Sherlock wondered what happened with all those words that he had filling his brain moments ago, he was speechless now. His mind now was empty and he hated it, he hated that sensation of losing the control of his body and his mind, he hated not be able to be in control of something that it was his.  It’s wasn’t fair. And the worst part was that he was, indeed, feeling good, feeling happy, fuzzy and somehow idiotic.

“ Look at me… you are unconscious of what I’m saying, your mind is somewhere else, other place but here, you are deepened in your dreams, and I lost the words. Imagine how it would have been with you completely here, mind and body, I would have crashed down.”

So this was going to be from now on? Feeling stupidly romantic and hopeful? This is what their lives were going to become? Sharing the same bed, caressing each other, having sex now and then? But then, Sherlock was ashamed of himself, he was assuming, you can’t assume things without all the evidence, anyway, why someone like John would want someone so broken?

 “I’m not good for you John, I’m not good enough, and I’m shattered, embittered, broken. Why would you want a broken man with you? I don’t understand… why? Why you always are here, why you always believe in me? Why you see well where other only sees a monster? It’s not reasonable.”

Why John as incredibly foolish?

“How that is when everyone leaves, you remain. And after all the things that I’ve done to you, the things that I put you through.  I think that you are the most idiotic and absurd person that I ever met, it goes against the nature selection, the human doesn’t adapt to the environment, the human adapts the environment to them own needs, but you… you, John, you are incredibly and delightfully different form everyone else.”

His voice was a whisper, a murmur that read his own soul and could not remain silent, because he knew that if he did not say those things now, there would be no opportunity or option to say them later. He won’t say them later.

“I’m not good enough for you but I guess… you’ll have to get used to that as I’ll have to get used to this, to the emotions, to care. But then I remember that I always cared about you; you were an exception, as usual.”

Sherlock tightened the embrace running his fingers up and down John’s torso; John’s skin was becoming easily his new addiction.

_John’s scent._

John’s scent was something that he couldn’t label, it was something he could not decipher and it will take many nights to learn each component of that smell that makes him burying his nose in John’s neck hollow. But for now Sherlock could tell that his own scent was going to be part of that mixture.

“I don’t want the emotions, I don’t want to care, but I do want you.  _Emotions cloud my thoughts, they…Scare me…but I will walk in the fog for the rest of my life to be with you._  And may someday you will help me to clear the fog.”

Sherlock let out a simple chuckle but then cleared his throat a bit embarrassed because of his “not so him” attitude.

His lips began to kiss the nape of John, down his neck to his shoulder, and dragged his back. Leaving silent promises of devotion, Sherlock caressed John’s body with his fingertips enjoying every inch of skin, every wound, every failure, and every defect that made John Watson so perfect.

“John Watson, you will be the death of me, but I just can’t walk away from you, not now, not ever. Because you made me a better human being, and I want to remain, just like you remain when everyone turns around and leave. Because I admire you, you can be so warm and kind; and then you can be so deadly and firm.”

Sherlock sighed; the relief on his heart was priceless,

“I guess that… from now on, I’m part of the losing side.”

He couldn’t be more pleased about it, he would take care of finding someone to blame up in the morning, because he was Sherlock Holmes and it wasn’t his fault have found someone that would make him want to spend the rest of his life with. It was for sure John’s fault.

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock’s hand sought to John’s in the dark, lacing his fingers to give it a little squeeze. He held his breath when he felt a squeeze back, after all, Sherlock had assumed that John was asleep, Sherlock never assumed, but as always, John was the only exception.

**Author's Note:**

> So... Yeah, I wrote this fanfic three years ago and still I think that is the best one I ever maneged to create, I guess it was because it was a gift. Someday I'll finish a fic AU about this two guys. Someday. Anyway it you like it, don't froget to coment, that will be nice, thank you for reading! :)


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